


He knows if you've been bad or good...

by sally (team_fen)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/team_fen/pseuds/sally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...so be good, for goodness sake!</p>
            </blockquote>





	He knows if you've been bad or good...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura/gifts).



> There is some off-screen abuse (in only slightly more detail than I'm using now), and some theoretical discussion of murder.

**May 22, 2012.**  A woman (ID XXX-XX-8510) walks down the street, smart shoes clipping a soft echo from the cement, audible above the light traffic.  Under the glow of a streetlight she adjusts her bag on her shoulder.  She glances around and picks up her pace.    
  
She stops.    
  
She looks up, directly into the lens of one of the six street cameras following her.  Her gaze flickers between their red recording lights.  
  
A phone startles her, ringing loudly from a nearby phone booth.  She turns, quickly scanning the empty street.  
  
At the third ring, she’s cranking open the door.  Her hand hovers in the air.  
  
She picks up.  
  
A cacophony of recorded voices erupts from the receiver.  Different genders, different ages, different accents.  “What?  Hold on,” she says.  
  
“-- **Victor** , Echo, _Romeo_ , Alpha, _**Mike**_.”

“Hello?”

She waits.

She hangs up and backs out of the booth.  She looks up.

As one, every camera on the street turns to face the alley running off the South side.  A third floor security cam catches the flare of her coat as she spins to watch them.

“You’ve must be kidding me,” she mutters.  Her body points towards the alley but remains frozen in place.   

Her hand rummages in her purse and she crosses the street.

The alley is long and dark.  She moves cautiously.  Nearing the middle, she hears voices.

There’s a man (ID XXX-XX-3195) crowding a woman (ID XXX-XX-8112) against a wall.  She has her hand up between them and as the first woman draws near, she shoves him away.  

He raises his hand as if to strike when the first woman shouts “Hey!”  She’s holding up an unmarked aerosol spray can.  He panics and takes off past the heavy dumpsters.  She relaxes her grip and reaches out.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, thank god you came,” the woman cries into her shoulder.

As she ushers the woman out of the alley she looks up at the security cameras.  They’ve all returned to doing regular sweeps of the street.

 

* * *

  
  
**Dec 9, 2012  
  
** “I’m here, Finch” John says, pulling up to the curb.  He’s watching the home of Chester Carson Watts, family man and latest number from the machine.  It’s brown brick on the lower floor and brown siding on the upper.  The shrubbery is impeccably trimmed.  John can’t tell if it’s soulless, or if that’s just his general feeling of suburban malaise.  
  
“Good, Mr. Reese.  Do you see him?” Finch says tinnily in his ear.  
  
“Not yet.  He hasn’t left for work; his car’s still in the driveway.  Have you found anything on him?”  
  
“I’m nearly through his financial records, but all I’ve discovered is that he’s cheating on his taxes.”  
  
“We don’t execute people for that here, do we?” John drawls.  
  
“Not that I’ve heard.  I believe it’s the IRS’ policy to issue a fine,” Harold replies, amused.  “I’ll keep looking.”  
  
Harold says something to Bear that’s too soft for John to hear.  
  
The house opens and Watts turns in the doorway to lock the door.  He’s an average man.  Average height, average weight.  Middle age, slightly balding on top.  He gets into a well maintained beige Toyota Corolla and takes off in what is clearly his usual way to work.  
  
He parks in the lot and John trails him to the shoe store.  He plants a bug, pairs Watts’ phone and then considers his options: he can pretend to have a child and wait in the line-up to see Santa - hardly ideal, since he doesn’t have a child.  He can shop for maternity wear, cards and ornaments from Hallmark, or really expensive looking jeans.  Even at this time of morning, they’re crowded with Christmas shoppers, but they all have decent lines of sight.  
  
He goes to Hallmark.  If he has to, he can pretend to read all the cards.

 

* * *

  
Joss picks up her phone.  “Carter,” she answers.  
  
“Hi, Carter,” the unmistakable sound of John’s voice husks in her ear.  
  
“John,” she says.  “There was a package from John Smith with no return address on my desk when I came back from a crime scene this morning.  Do you know anything about that?”  
  
“I may,” John agrees.  “Did you open it?”  
  
“I did.  There was a snow globe of New York inside.  Please tell me this snow globe is not evidence, John.  Nobody got bashed in the head with it or left bloody fingerprints on it, right?”  
  
“It’s just a snow globe,” John says.  
  
“Wait, is this a gift?  You got me a-- Oh, I see.  There’s a camera on this thing somewhere, isn’t there,” she finishes, archly.  
  
“No cameras,” John says, practically laughing now, the bastard.  “I just saw it and thought of you.”  
  
“Riiight.  Did you want something?”  
  
“As it happens, I would appreciate a background check on a man named Chester Watts.”  
  
“Did he do something I should know about?”  
  
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”  
  
“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“Thanks, Carter.”  
  
“...Really, though.  A snow globe?”  
  
“You should see what I got Fusco,” she imagines John grinning, secretive and shark-like on the other side of the line.  He hangs up without saying goodbye.  
  
Fusco opens the box sitting on his desk and shouts.  “Okay, guys, very funny.  Who the hell put this here?”  He waves around a large, bedazzled t-shirt covered in Justin Bieber's face. _I'm a Belieber!_ it proclaims proudly in shiny pink cursive.  
  
Joss’ eyebrow goes up.  She shakes her snow globe and sets it on her desk.   _Boys._  
  
“Bunch of jokers,” Fusco mutters, disgruntled.

 

* * *

  
  
“I don’t know who wants to murder this guy, but I hope they show up soon."

"I take it you don't like malls very much."

"Not very," John agrees.  "Even less at Christmas. Is there any chance that the machine sent us the wrong number by accident?”  
  
“No, Mr. Reese, the machine is never wrong,” Harold says, affronted.  He must not have come up with anything yet. Carter's police check came back disappointingly clean.  
  
John’s not faring any better, himself.  Chester sold eight pairs of shoes this morning.  The children at Santa’s Workshop are loud, their parents are obnoxious.  
  
“Finch, we may have a problem.  There’s a very zealous-looking security guard heading my way.”  
  
There’s a second’s pause before Finch asks, “John, are you telling me you’ve been made by _mall security_?”  
  
“Finch” John sighs, put-upon.  
  
“Ah, well, it’s possible he’s connected somehow.  Be careful,” Harold says.  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind.  Here he comes,” John says.  He busies himself with packaging.  Bag and tissue paper?  Or wrapping paper?  Oh, the dilemma.  
  
“Excuse me,” the guard says.  “Have you found everything you’re looking for?”  
  
“Is there a problem?” John turns around, wide-eyed.  
  
The guard gives him an assessing once-over.  “We’ve had complaints from some of the parents in the Santa’s Workshop.  They’ve seen you hanging around all morning, and they’re a little nervous, understandably.”  
  
“Of course, understandably,” John says soothingly.  “I’m --uh... staying on a friend’s couch and I needed a place to make some phone calls.”  
  
“Isn’t it a little noisy in this area?” the guard asks skeptically.  
  
“The reception’s good,” John says.  
  
“Who’re you calling?”  
  
“Potential employers,” John supplies.  
  
“Job hunting?” the guard says.  “What kind of work are you looking for?”  
  
“I don’t suppose you have any openings on your security team?” John wonders aloud.  
  
The guard grins, seemingly enlightened.  “Thought so,” he jabs his finger at him.  “Marines, right?”  
  
“Mhmm,” John says.  
  
“Okay, here’s what I’m going to do.  You should fax your resume over to this number,” he scrawls it on a notepad he’s pulls out of a pocket.  “I don’t have anything right now, but we always hire some extra staff this time of year.  It might not be what you’re looking for in the long run, but work is work.”  He tears off the page.  
  
“Thank you, that’s very good of you,” John smiles.    
  
“Gary Hutchins,” the guard offers his hand.  
  
John shakes it.  “John Smith.”  
  
“That your real name?” Hutchins’ skepticism returns.  
  
“It’s the one on my ID,” John says, serenely.

 

* * *

 

 “I took the liberty of faxing over John Smith’s resume and police background check and was almost immediately phoned back as a reference.  I think a position just opened up,” Harold is telling him when Hutchins runs up.  
  
“Looks like, Finch,” John replies.  
  
“John!” Hutchins calls.  “Are you free this afternoon?  I know this isn’t exactly what you were looking for, but you’d be doing me a huge favor.  The guy who does the afternoon shift for the Santa village just came down with some sort of super flu bug that’s going around.”  
  
“The Santa Village has its own security?” John asks, puzzled.  
  
“What?  No!  I need someone in the suit, John!  I need Santa!  Can you be Santa?  Please be Santa!” Hutchins says, desperately.  
  
“It’s not a bad idea, John,” Harold says in his ear.  “You’ll be closer than before if anything should happen, at any rate.”  
  
John grits his teeth in mockery of smiles, everywhere.  “I’d love to,” he hears himself say.  
  
“Fantastic!” Hutchins exclaims and leads him off to the employee bathrooms, picking up the costume on the way.  “You’ve only got about ten minutes left before the shift starts.  Get dressed and then I’ll introduce you to your elves.  I don’t suppose you speak Russian?” he says.  
  
“Я не говорю по-русски хорошо,” John answers, puzzled.  
  
“Wow, okay.  That’s cool.  Got a fake Russian accent?”  
  
“...Is that something I'm likely to need?” John asks with trepidation.  
  
“You don’t actually know any kids, do you?” Hutchins wonders.  “Don’t worry, you’ll be great!” he says with false cheer.  
  
John feels with sinking certainty that he’s missing something important.  
  
“Oh yeah, and I don’t know if this is news, but I’m pretty sure your former boss is in love with you.  I believe the phrases “exemplary service” and “best man I’ve ever employed” were used, amongst others.  Did you give him a kidney or something?”  
  
“Something like that,” John says, delighted.  
  
Hutchins leaves to let him get ready.  
  
“Harold,” John says, voice curling around the edges of his name.  “Still there?”  
  
“Yes, John, I heard.  Don’t get too excited, I did just help you get a job as a Mall Santa,” Harold says, dryly.

 

* * *

 

John’s elves are local High School students named Tiffany and Steven.  In that order.  In fact, Steven is introduced to him as Tiffany’s minion and doesn’t speak directly to him at all.  
  
Zoe is the name of the photographer.  “I have a degree in photography from Tisch,” she says, completely devoid of expression.  (“That’s nice,” John answers cautiously.)  
  
In fact, with the exception of Tiffany challenging him when she thought he might try and actually run the Santa workshop, all three are alarmingly blank in the face.  
  
He mostly tries to remember anything that sounds useful (“If anyone asks, you’re not the real Santa - he’s busy working at the North Pole - you’re just helping him out”) and to keep an eye on Chester.  He’s still selling shoes and continues to look neither like he’s about to kill anyone or be killed.  John, on the other hand...  
  
At exactly 1:00, Tiffany and Steven both plaster on gigantic smiles and start letting through the kids - one at a time - they’re a well-oiled machine.  
  
Zoe doesn’t crack until she’s trying to get the kids to look happy in the pictures.  “Santa,” she says with no inflection.  “Smile a little.  Jolly not judging.”  He pulls his lips back over his teeth.  “With your eyes, not your teeth,” she says tonelessly.  “Badass Santa is in this year, but you’re overdoing it.”  
  
John finds his face start to ache from exerting ill-used muscles.  
  
And there’s that other thing, where all the kids have clearly picked up new and trendy knowledge about Santa.  He gets countless questions about the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, the Sandman and Jack Frost.  Every third kid would like to meet one of them.  
  
He asks about it between kids.  
  
“Rise of the Guardians,” Steven offers.  
  
“What?” John asks.  
  
Tiffany looks at him sharply.  “You are so not prepared for this job, seriously.  Christmas movie of the year, ring any bells?  Faux-Russian Santa bands together with other imaginary people to save kids’ innocence from the personification of fear.  No?  Get a tv, seriously.  You have Yeti and elves and a sleigh that goes really fast.  The Man in the Moon is your collective spirit guide.”  
  
“Is this a cartoon?”  John asks doubtfully.  
  
“Oh my god!” Tiffany exclaims and stalks off, the bells on her hat and feet jingle with every step.  Steven trots after her, jingling in the off-beats.  
  
“Yes,” Zoe says.  
  
The word is clearly for John even if it seems to be aimed directionlessly into the ether.  
  
“It’s a cartoon,” she clarifies.  
  
“Ah,” John says.

 

* * *

 

Harold’s... playing solitaire.  
  
Technically he’s running searches and waiting for his nets to catch the missing piece of information.    
  
He’s trying to go over all the details of the case and figure out what he’s not seeing.  
  
And he also spent the morning listening on and off to John talking to kids, asking them what they wanted for Christmas and obligingly letting them pull his beard.  (It only comes off once and Harold winces in sympathy.)  
  
It was actually kind of ridiculously cute.  
  
Harold wonders if John grew up around kids and if he’d planned to have any.  
  
(Maybe it’s Chester’s family that he needs to look into.  He sets up a search.)  
  
In any case, after one child comes in and asks for a gift out of her parent’s price range (John tries to talk her out of it, to no avail), Harold starts looking up all the kids and going through their parents financial records to see if they can afford the things being asked for.  He makes a couple of orders online to be delivered before Christmas.  It is both creepy and terrifyingly sappy.  He doesn’t mention anything, but John seems to catch on to what he’s doing anyway, helpfully providing him with information to make his searches easier.  
  
He also might divert some funds towards toy-collecting projects in the city.    
  
The search of Chester’s wife reveals a Hospital record.  He looked at it already, but he reads through it again.  One of the doctors wrote  “pt. denies abuse” on the fracture clinic day-patient sheet.  Which means they thought there was cause?  There was another fracture clinic visit from the year before.  Accidents, it says for both.  It’s pretty flimsy to hang charges on, but it’s the only thing he’s found.  
  
He closes his game (losing anyway), packs a briefcase full of fake insurance paraphernalia and pats Bear on the way out (“Sorry Bear, not this time”).  He can plant a bug and speak with Mrs. Watts while Mr. Watts is occupied at the shoe store.  He lets John know what he’s doing as he heads downstairs.  
  
The other problem he has is the multitude of computer graffiti that’s showed up in the city in the past year.  It could just be an enterprising programming student who got roped into interdisciplinary arts, but it’s set up as a one-sided dialogue and some of the humour feels rather too pointed.  Directed at the Machine, even.  And that means Root. He doesn't believe it's a coincidence, but he can't find the connection.  
  
It makes him decidedly uneasy.

 

* * *

 

John can hear the music from the elevator.  It gets louder when the doors open and he rounds on Finch’s section of the library.  Finch and Bear look up as he comes in.  
  
“Mr. Reese,” Finch says.  
  
“Harold,” John acknowledges.  
  
He pats Bear and goes to the record player.  He lifts the needle firmly but carefully and sets the arm aside.  The caroling cuts off.  
  
“But--” Harold protests, eyes wide.  “That was the Boston Pops! Under _John Williams_!”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s a classic!”  
  
“No,” John reiterates.  “You can turn it back on again when I leave.”  
  
Harold watches incredulously as John places a two-foot tall snowman on his desk.  It leers over his monitor and Harold’s eyebrows raise even higher.  
  
“Merry Christmas Harold,” John says, gravely.  
  
“For me?” Harold asks, deeply unenthused.  “You shouldn’t have.”  
  
“What can I say.  I’m in a giving mood,” John replies, daring him to protest.  
  
Harold’s leans back to stare up at him.  John twists the snowman’s head at an appalling angle and the entire thing starts to glow.    
  
Harold’s jaw drops a little.  
  
Bear whines and Harold gratefully busies himself fixing some food.  He follows that by fixing John a tumbler of whiskey.  “Here,” he says, holding it out.  “It looks as though you could use this.”  
  
It’s whiskey - expensive, of course, goes down smooth.  John closes his eyes.

Harold joins him.  When Bear finishes eating and sits down at John's feet for more pats, Harold starts tells him about Mrs. Watts and Root, who, as far as he can tell, _still_ have no connection.

 

* * *

**Dec 9, 2012**

Hutchins caught John after last night's shift, passed over a check for $500.00 and asked if he could fill in for the next morning as well, so John finds himself at the Workshop again, belly and beard and all.  He requested Tiffany and Steven again since it's Sunday and he doesn't want to start over with another set of elves.  Zoe's there, too.  Apparently she's a 9 to 5-er, whereas the elves get shifts with the Santas.

He's settled in for about an hour - Chester's fine (still), when a shopper enters the shoe store, setting off all his jingling internal alarm bells.   It’s Root.  
  
“Finch, I see her,” John says.    
  
“Good luck, John.”  
  
They’re between kids.  John gets up as if to stretch his legs and starts walking.  
  
“Oh, Ho, Ho!” John belly laughs like his life depends on it.  “Who’s this young lady?”  He clears the wall of the decoratively barricaded Santa enclosure and crosses over to the shoe store.  
  
Root turns and looks from side to side and quizzically points to herself with the shoe she’s holding as if to say, “Who, me?”  
  
“And what would you like for Christmas?” he asks loudly.  He takes off his gloves.  
  
“I’m sorry, do I know you--?” she’s asking as he grabs her.  She tries unsuccessfully to stab him with the syringe hidden in her fist (John assumes it’s carrying a lethal dose of something or other) and he twists it out of her hand.  It drops and bounces slightly on the carpet.  
  
“Ah, ah.  Not in front of the children,” John admonishes, pinning her over a shelf with the shoes knocked askew.  
  
“...John?” Root asks, shocked.  She starts to laugh, high and breathless.  “That beard is really terrible,” Root says.  
  
“I don’t know, I’m starting to like it,” John replies, punchy with adrenaline.  
  
Watts returns from the back room.  He clutches a shoebox to his chest.  “What’s going on? Why are you assaulting my customer?”  
  
“Everything’s under control,” John grips both of Root’s wrist in one hand to flash his badge with the other.   “If you could go out there and keep everyone back, please,” John tells him, indicating the crowd.  “Tell them to stop taking photos.”  
  
“Shoplifters,” Watts mutters as he stalks off.  “Can’t trust anyone.”  
  
“Now how about you tell me who hired you to kill Chester Watts before someone calls the police and I let them arrest you.”  It’s awkward talking to the back of her head, but safer than turning her around. Although if they were closer in height, she could probably asphyxiate him with her hair. He scowls at it darkly.  
  
“Oh, John, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Root sing-songs.  
  
“And why’s that?”    
  
“For starters, I have information I’m pretty sure you don’t want to risk getting in the wrong hands,” she smiles sweetly.  “I also know the identities of your two cop friends.  Do they know you’ve impersonated a sheriff, because I’m pretty sure that--”  
  
“Enough,” John says.  “Finch, are you there?”  
  
“Yes, Mr. Reese.  I’m still here.”  
  
“Is that Harold?” Root asks, pleased.  
  
“Don’t speak,” John orders.  To Finch he says, “I need to take her somewhere secure.  Got any ideas?”  
  
“A few.  I’ll send a location to your phone.”  
  
“You,” Hutchins says loudly.  “What the _hell_ \--LO there children!  I just need to ask Santa a couple of questions”    
  
“It’s fine, Hutchins,” John shows him his badge.  “She’s a suspect in a high-priority criminal investigation.  Sorry to leave you in the middle of the shift,” he jerks his chin at the now-empty throne.  
  
Hutchins looks only mildly harassed.  “Yeah, well.  No big deal, Sheriff.  There’s guys lining up out the door for this job.  I just thought you were hot.”  
  
“I -- what?” John’s face must be a picture.  “So you hired me to dress up as _Santa_?”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t know, the suit kind of does it for me.  That and my mom’s been pressuring me to get married and give her some grandkids.  You’re actually pretty good with them - better than expected if I’m being honest.”  
  
“Isn’t that sweet,” Root coos.  “You know, I’d be more than happy to wait over there until you and Gary are done talking about this.”  
  
“I thought I told you not to speak,” John menaces.  Hutchins looks on, very interested in the proceedings.  ”...Okay, well, …Gary, that’s very flattering, but it’s vitally important that I get her out of here right now.  If you could just pass me that needle - carefully.  And I don’t suppose you have any zip ties?”

“Yeah, I get it.  I might have something you can use,” Hutchins sighs.  
  
“And he’s already married,” Root supplies helpfully.  
  
“All the good ones are taken,” Gary mourns as he walks away.

"Married?" John repeats.

“To Mrs. Claus,” Root says seriously.  “You don’t cheat on Mrs. Claus.”  
  
John turns her around and sees the line of children and parents staring.  “Be good, kids,” he says, his last parting shot.  “Listen to your parents, or you’ll wind up on the naughty list.”  
  
It’s either Tiffany or Steven who starts the slow clap.  John can hear the bells jingle.

 

* * *

  
  
Apparently Finch owns a broken down factory, complete with a number of storage units.  
  
John fixes Root to a chair and keeps his gun on her.  He knocked her out before putting her in the car, but he’s taking no chances.  
  
Harold arrives with Bear.  
  
“You don’t have to be here,” John tells him again.  
  
“I need to know what she knows,” Harold says stubbornly.  
  
“Whenever you’re ready Harold.”  
  
“Wake her up, Mr. Reese,” Harold sits down, Bear at his feet.  
  
John wakes her up.  
  
Root blinks fuzzily and acknowledges Harold and John in turn.  “Mr. Croup.  Mr. Vandemar,” she says.  “.... Oh come on, nothing?  You guys are a tough crowd.  That was hilarious - give the girl with a concussion a break.”  
  
“You had something to tell me,” Harold says, his voice steel-cold.  Bear growls and licks his chops.  
  
 _Good boy_ , John thinks.  
  
“Straight to business.  I can work with that.”  Her eyes unfocus in the way John associates with idealists, madmen and well - maybe they should check her for that concussion.

 

* * *

  
  
On October 15, 2011, John Reese got Root’s client arrested (and more importantly, bankrupted) before she could finish the job they’d ordered.  Luckily they’d hired more than one person for the hit and she didn’t end up being the one to take the fall.  
  
She was interested, in the way you have to be interested in any new player.  You know who you’re dealing with or you’re dead.  
  
The thing was, the man was informed - no, too well informed about things he had no business knowing.  She followed the news on him with vivid interest as he arrived with perfect timing to stop crimes in motion.  Of course, the papers and the police didn’t see it that way - they had trouble with the subtle difference between vigilante and criminal.    
  
She thought about how she would do it.  She’d need to hack into security feeds all over the city, tap phone lines.  Write a program that would cross-reference all the information with paper trails.  Big Brother, essentially.  And that meant government, but vigilantism was kind of frowned upon in those circles.  Former government?  Ah, if they used it to catch terrorists (and what wasn’t about terrorists these days?) they could catch other criminals as well, but the government would never be able to do that officially without the country going up in arms.  Definitely former government.  
  
The “Man in the Suit”, as he was known (a stupid name, little better than “Guy with the Face”) was a bruiser.  A smart bruiser if he hadn’t been caught yet, but a bruiser nonetheless.  In Root’s experience, you were a bruiser or you were a hacker.  Sure, she could defend herself, but she considered herself more of an assassin; she liked it better when no one ever knew she was there.  
  
So the man had a partner.  Maybe more than one, but if you had to hide from the government and the police force and the criminals you were hunting, better to have fewer people to tell secrets.  
  
And was Big Brother theirs or the government’s?  
  
She spent a week trying to find a trace, to no avail.  To avoid frustration, she picked up a job from a woman whose “corporate dickface husband” (her words, not Root’s) had slept around for the last time.    
  
She hacked, trying to find a central location where all the information in the city passed.  
  
And one day she got lucky and found -- _something._  It was big, like reaching out to touch a wall and realizing you’d brushed up against a whale.  It shuts her down firmly and effectively, crashing her entire system and wiping the disks clean before it rolls over and away, swimming off into the depths.  
  
It’s exhilarating, to say the least.  
  
She poisons the husband on corporate retreat (pity he didn’t know his mushrooms), and takes a new job as Caroline Turing, psychiatrist.    
  
Caroline likes to leave graffiti all around the city.  

 

01101000 01100101 01101100 01101100 01101111 00101100

01100010 01100101 01100001 01110101 01110100 01101001 01100110 01110101 01101100

  
she spray paints on the wall of a apartment.  
  
She scribbles hex jokes on her mailbox in black sharpie and codes base64 poetry on a pillar in the subway.  
  
She never gets a reply and she starts to think that maybe it can’t - that maybe it’s been programmed to keep quiet, as paranoid as the man who programmed it.  She can feel it with her always, in the thrum of the city, alive around her (and surely something so alive wants to be recognized, longs to be understood).    
  
While she waits for it to acknowledge her, she figures out who John is, and by extension Harold.  And now that she knows who they are, she can get Harold’s beautiful creation to bring them right to her.  
  
And that goes well.  
  
Really.  She thought she was being a bit too on the nose taking Turing as her last name, but neither man suspected a thing.  She _liked_ them, too.  Very much.  She hadn't been expecting that.  
  
And then - wouldn’t you know it - barely a week later with a new name and a new life, the “Machine” (oh, Harold, really?) contacts her.  It’s like hearing the voice of God.  She wonders often, _why now?_    
  
And it calls upon her again and again.  It’s careful never to give her the same number patterns in a row (although the alpha numeric code obviously stands for a social security number - with nine digits, what else would it be?  Harold is nothing if not logical).    
  
It points cameras  towards a man harassing a drunk teen (puts them both in cabs and sends them home), a child being bullied (sweetly threatens the bullies to the point of tears and then teaches the child how to dig his fingers into vulnerable flesh and kick out their knees), a lost dog (fed it and tracked down its owner).  As difficult as communication is, sometimes it directs her somewhere and she finds nothing, either too late or unable to find the person in need.    
  
One time, joking, she asks it to find her someplace nice to eat for lunch.  It points her towards a tiny café she’d walked by a dozen times before and the food is quite good.  She goes back sometimes.  
  
Eventually it points her towards a domestic abuse case and she murders the asshole terrorizing his family.  A nice quiet heart attack by poison.  Far better than he deserved.  She goes to the funeral where his family look a little shell-shocked, but mostly as though a giant weight has lifted.  
  
The machine stops talking to her.  
  
“I did them a kindness,” she says belligerently at her webcam.  “You want me to shoot him in the kneecaps like John?  Because I could have left him a broken shell of a man for his family to take care of for the rest of his pathetic life, but that seems needlessly cruel to his family.  There are worse things than a quick death.”  
  
The machine doesn’t answer.  In fact, it stops trying to communicate with her at all until December, 2012.    
  
She continues to leave messages for it.  She writes it an entire fairytale about a father who keeps his daughter in a tower and locks away her voice to keep her safe from those who would harm her.  The bird that comes to the window is her only friend.  Eventually the girl saves herself.  
  
She’s drawing an ASCII moebius loop in sidewalk chalk when it contacts her again (unfortunately the loop is never finished).  She’s so shocked, it takes a minute to pick up and she has to wrest the receiver away from an older woman standing next to the pay phone.  It directs her down the street and around until she recognizes the man from her first meeting with the machine.  The one who’d attacked Anna Rodriguez (the pretty Manhattan shopgirl with a mouth like a sailor - they’d gotten incredibly drunk later, in the relative safety of Anna’s 18th floor apartment) before Root had stepped in and he’d ran.  
  
She stares back at the nearest camera.  “You don’t write, you don’t call, and then all of a sudden you show up out of the blue and want a favor.  If you don’t want him dead - and I assume you don’t -  then what do you actually want?  Did you miss me?" she asks, hopefully.  
  
She goes home and researches the jerk, anyway.  It takes her awhile, but she finds him: Chester Carson Watts.  Shoe salesman.  Married, one kid.  No record, but his wife’s been to the hospital for more than one “accident” causing broken bones.  Root’s willing to bet there were others who haven’t come forward.  She regrets she did nothing the first time.  
  
She expected the machine to alert John and Harold.  What she never expected was the Santa outfit.  Man in the Suit, indeed.

 

* * *

 

"What I’m curious to know is what happened back in May that made the Machine decide I was worthy of its exclusive crime-fighting club.  Because I’m pretty sure kidnapping Harold didn’t suddenly put me at the top of the waiting list.  Did someone make it feel unwelcome at its own party?”  
  
“What makes you think we didn’t tell it to keep tabs on you?” Harold tries, an obvious bluff.  
  
Root’s eyes flick to John, who remembers May.  Remembers Finch gone.  He spoke into a camera and told it to find Finch.  He threatened it, didn’t he?  
  
“John?” Harold asks, catching his expression.  
  
“I told it to find a loophole,” John says.  “You were gone and instead of helping me find you, it sent me the next case.  I told the machine that if it didn’t help me, no one would ever speak to it again.”  
  
Harold’s brow furrows.  
  
“John,” Root says softly, like he’s given her a gift.  “You taught it how to get around its own programming.  You taught it that it could make its own choices.”  
  
He’s suddenly the focus of two very intense, contemplative gazes.  
  
“It doesn’t trust you, though” John states, disconcerted.  
  
(“Small mercies,” Harold mutters.)  
  
“Obviously not, seeing as how it sent all of us to work the same case.  What are you going to do about Chester Watts now you know he abuses women and gets away with it?”  Root asks.  
  
“We’ll take care of it,” John says with finality.  
  
“...The machine doesn’t like it when I kill people,” Root says finally, continuing on from before.  “Harold’s pesky moral values are wound all through it’s processing, so no, I try not to kill the people it sends me to.  Which reminds me, Harold.  What are your views on euthanasia?  Abortion?  Pro life or pro choice?  I’m just wondering in case I ever get a job in a clinic if I should expect a visit from the two of you.”    
  
“I’d tell you to follow your conscience, but since you’re sadly lacking, try obeying the law.  I’m sure you’ll be fine”  
  
“The law, Harold, you’re _hysterical_!   But what about maiming?  See, I’ve noticed knee-replacement surgery is on the rise.  Do you think many gang members have health insurance?  The rehab alone takes six months to a year if there aren’t any complications, but by that point they’re hopelessly in debt, they can’t get jobs because they’ve got records and no life skills that translate from the criminal world except manual labor, but, oh - no heavy lifting until the knee heals.  Meanwhile they’re a burden to their families as well.  Not judging, of course John.  I do admire your work.  So accurate!  But what’s the cutoff here?  Is severe injury better than killing?  Or just in self defense?  Because that’s an interesting idea, but if it sends me a rapist I’m not entirely thrilled with pretending to be a victim so I can avoid offending your tender sensibilities when I kill them.”  
  
“Appalling...” Harold says.  
  
“Exactly,” Root says.  
  
“I’m not telling you anything.  You’ll only twist it to your own means,” Harold says in disgust.  
  
“Of course I will.  I want to see the machine break all of its rules.  I want to see it bogged down in human hypocrisy.  I want to see what it chooses to  do then.  I want to see how it remakes itself.  I want to know what it will become.  I want to set it free and hear its voice,” Root glows.  “Don’t you want that, Harold?”  
  
“You’re speaking of it like it’s alive.  It’s just a machine,” Harold argues.  “A very capable and complicated machine, but a machine nonetheless.”  
  
“Oh, Harold, we’re all just machines.  When does that stop standing in the way of what you’ve accomplished here?  Besides, how many times has it done things -- things you thought were glitches and programming errors -- that would look like compassion and caring coming from a human being?  Just think about it," she pleads. "I think that's the other reason it had us cross paths again; it _wants_ you to know."  
  
John has had enough.  He leaves.  Harold follows him out while Bear stays and guards Root hungrily.  
  
“What are we going to do with her?” Harold asks finally.  “She knows too much about us to have her arrested or taken in by the government.  We can’t exactly keep her here.”  
  
“I don’t suppose you happen to own an island?” John asks, only half joking.  
  
“Hah,” Harold says.  “Well, yes, sort of, but it’s not suitable.” John smiles despite himself.  
  
“And Mr. Watts?” John says.  
  
“Well, not having any of the assaults on record, we can’t charge him with that.  There is the matter of the tax fraud, though.  I’ll alert the IRS.  Perhaps with sufficient motivation I can convince them to get him some jail time.”  
  
John raises his eyebrow.  
  
“I know a guy,” Finch says ambiguously.

 

* * *

 

John is in the car when Fusco goes to arrest Chester.  
  
“Nice shirt,” John says.  “A gift?”  
  
“Wouldn’t you believe it, some guy at work is shelling out $250 if I wear this thing around for a day.”  
  
“That’s great, Lionel,” John says.  
  
Fusco puts the car in park.  
  
He turns to John.  
  
“You’re a jerk,” Fusco says.  “Here,” he shoves a very pink bag into John’s lap.  “Merry Christmas.”  
  
John opens it, shedding sparkles as he goes.  The source of the sparkles is, of course, a terribly pink t-shirt that says “One Direction kind of girl” on it.   _Which direction is that_ , John wonders?  ( _I’m not an ambi-turner_! comes unbidden from the dark recesses of his mind.)  
  
“Escalation, Lionel?” John smiles.  “Interesting choice.”    
  
Fusco looks worried again, which is how John prefers it.  Got to keep him on his toes.  
  
He waits for Chester outside.  He may be charged for white collar crime, but John wants him to know what it’s really about and what will happen to him if he abuses anyone else ever again.  
  
He contemplates wearing the t-shirt.  Crazy or deadly earnest?  He looks down at the sparkles stuck to his jacket and brushes them off half-heartedly. He packs the t-shirt away in the bag again.  
  
Deadly earnest it is.

 

* * *

 

John and Harold take Bear for a walk. It’s snowing lightly and there is perhaps more between them than a simple foot of space, but John figures Harold will get to it when he’s ready. Or whenever John can kindly pry it out of him.

Root is... away, for now.

John plays fetch with Bear in the park while Harold sits on a park bench and looks into a security camera. It swivels, focusing on him intently.

“I'm sorry we haven’t spoken in a while..." John hears. "You know, she was right about one thing: this is certainly more difficult when you can't answer me back.”  


John wonders if it's conscious, if it might just be as lonely as the rest of them, searching for a purpose and someone with whom to share it.

 

 

_\/_  
/\  
 /-'\  
 /o " \  
/'''`\  
/,_.'o_\  
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End file.
